


The Potential of You and Me

by orphan_account



Series: Love at Second Sight [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, CEO!Derek, Derek Uses His Words, Fluff and Angst, Kid Fic, Kid!Isaac, Kid!Jackson, Kid!Scott, Kind of like how I abuse the tags, M/M, and abuses songs for his own purpose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:37:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Of course, hell yes!” Stiles enthuses. “Let’s go, Derek, and then we can go to the art store. I’ve taught the boys well. Rose-Art is of the devil.” He laughs, and then groans as they emerge from the seclusion of the hallway, noises overwhelming them once more. “Oh god I hate the mall. Disney, Derek, let’s go to Disney.”</p><p>~</p><p>The Christmas sequel to 'Love at Second Sight'. Derek and Stiles go Christmas shopping and to a holiday party. It leads to two things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Potential of You and Me

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the sequel to Love at Second Sight! It took me longer than anticipated. I wrote 300 words the night after the first night, and then 2500+ words tonight. Yay.
> 
> Title from 'I Will Possess Your Heart', Death Cab for Cutie, which is shamelessly quoted here. Stiles is my musical animal.

DECEMBER 18

“He wants to hear your voice,” Erica says into Stiles’s ear, as he presses against the secluded wall, Derek leaning in to listen. Or, it’s as secluded as a _mall_ wall possibly can be, which is to say, not a damn bit. “He keeps asking for you.”

“Put him on, okay, and then Scott and Jacks too,” he says back, simply. There’s a scuffle, and Derek grins into Stiles’s neck. “Hi, honey, what’s wrong?”

“Tatusiu!” Isaac’s tear-stained voice cries. “Where _are_ you, when are you coming home, is it soon, _please please please please_ be home soon, Tatusiu, and Papa too, I miss you, I miss you. Aunty Erica’s nice, but I want you to be here too, please!” Isaac’s voice is loud and unsteady, and Stiles imagines the three-year-old boy clutching the cell phone as if it were a lifeline.

“Pumpkin pie, love of mine, we’ll be done soon, as fast as we can, we swear, kochanie,” he promises, slipping in Isaac’s special word, the one he loves to hear Stiles whisper to him. “We miss you too, very much. Can you put Scott on the phone, and then Jackson? But you can talk to me again before I have to finish shopping, kochanie, I promise.” He smiles, and says, “And Papa’s right here.”

“Okay,” Isaac sniffles, and Scott’s voice is even louder.

“Tatusiu, hurry up, I miss you, Jackson’s being mean and not letting me get the pink crayon so I can color your shirt in. And Aunty Erica says he can still use it and it’s not fair, Tatusiu!” Scott sputters. There’s a slam. “Tatusiu, please tell him to give me the pink crayon! _Please!_ ”

“Oh, Scotty,” he says, and Derek nips at his neck, and Stiles knows what is running through his mind _(“Oh c’mon sourpatch! Scotty doesn’t know, Scotty doesn’t know, so don’t tell Scotty!”)_. “We have more than one pink crayon at home. If Jackson doesn’t finish, you can use one of them, okay?

“Okay,” Scott huffs, and another rustle sounds again. _“Jackson!”_

“Hi, Tatusiu,” Jackson says calmly, through the din of Scott’s shouts. “I’m drawing a picture of us. What are you shopping for? Can we get more crayons? And maybe some markers? Not Rose-Art though, _eew_. Crayola, Tatusiu, okay? And when will you be home? Can we make pierogies tonight? I’m _starving_ and Aunt Erica says we have to wait for you all, so hurry and _here_ , Isaac!”

“Hi,” Isaac says into the phone. “Please be home soon, Tatusiu? Papa?”

“Of course, Isaac,” Derek says, his breath warming Stiles’s ear. “We will. I love you.” Stiles says the same, and when they hang up, Derek turns to Stiles. “Disney store now, I presume?”

“Of _course_ , hell yes!” Stiles enthuses. “Let’s _go_ , Derek, and then we can go to the art store. I’ve taught the boys well. Rose-Art is of the devil.” He laughs, and then groans as they emerge from the seclusion of the hallway, noises overwhelming them once more. “Oh _god_ I hate the mall. Disney, Derek, let’s go to _Disney_.”

After they worm their way towards the Disney store, Stiles is like a child in a candy store: he’s squealing over the little Scottish princess. “Merida is precious, look at her little red curls!” he says, and something in his eyes makes Derek happy and tense at the same time. “And _Mum, it’s just mah bow!”_ He laughs hard, and turns to look at Derek. “C’mon, sourpatch, Scott wants some stuff from that video game movie, and Isaac likes Monsters Inc., and Jackson likes Rise of the Guardians, okay? We can get them those, and art supplies.”

Derek nods, feeling the knot unclench, and only when Stiles smiles at a baby in her father’s arms does he understand _why_ he felt so tense. Stiles clearly likes kids—God, he took the boys under his wing without hesitation, and _before_ Derek—but for some reason, this is different. Derek can see how yearning Stiles looks, but hides it.

“Like weddings?” he finally says, as they stride out of Disney. “Or just babies in general?”

“I love all of them. I wish I had gotten to see the boys when they were that age.” He looks pained. “I didn’t mean—Laura—sorry.” He bites at his lower lip and dips his head down, his arms hanging low with the weight of the bags that he _insisted_ he carry.

“It’s okay,” Derek says quietly, the ache for his sister a constant. “I understand. Stiles. Do—do you want children?” It’s been five months, but something about Stiles just makes him _love_ hard and fierce and something that licks at him like fire on the inside, but doesn’t burn.

“I… yes,” Stiles admits, quickly, blushingly. “I do. But I have all the children I need.”

“I see,” Derek says, and they don’t speak as Stiles picks up a sixty-four pack of crayons and inspects it. Derek watches the way the cheap fluorescent reflects of his caramel colored eyes, and he pulls Stiles to him, the crayons falling back onto the shelf as Stiles starts. He kisses him, the way he used to ride a bike, carefully but determinedly, hand pressed protectively on Stiles’s cheek.

“Hi,” Stiles says softly, when Derek draws back. “Love you.” He smiles briefly, the moles on his face dancing, and presses his thumb into Derek’s palm. “Let’s go on home, okay baby? I don’t want Isaac to worry too much, and it sounds like the boys are going to tear up Erica’s house over the pink crayon.”

“Sure,” Derek agrees. “Love you too.” Derek’s phone—his work phone—vibrates against his leg, and he pulls it out. It’s a text from his secretary, Matt Daehler. _Mr. Hale, remember the company party on Friday._ He skipped today because Stiles said they _had_ to shop for presents before the mall became too overwhelming, and he was right. It’s already clogged with frantic people.

 _Alright, Matt. I’ll be there. Send all my work to my email and I shall deal with it when I have the chance tomorrow._ He doesn’t say tonight because Stiles’s made it a rule that “once you are home, no work is involved”. He only allows the work phone, because Derek protested so vehemently. Stiles was almost upset over that, and when Derek prodded, Stiles admitted that his father was always preoccupied with his work.

So he’s always attentive to his family, for the boys, and for his boy, his lover, and hopefully his fiancé. Soon.

“Babe?” Derek queries, sliding over his card to pay. The cashier widens his eyes at the expensive look to it, but says nothing. “I have a company holiday party on Friday. Want to come with me? Please?”

“What about the boys?” Stiles asks, absently running his fingers over Derek’s wrist. “Yes, we’d like a bag please.” They walk out, and Stiles continues, “Plus, will I have to dress up or anything? You know how uncomfortable and uncouth I am in suits. I’m like… the fucking Fred Flintstone in a suit. Or something. I don’t know.”

“Erica. And you look beautiful in a suit. _And_ I love your mouth, every filthy _word_ that comes out of it,” Derek whispers in Stiles’s ear, and he shivers, the shell of it shaking against Derek’s lips.

“Mmm… okay,” Stiles agrees, and they walk out into flurries and biting wind, but the warmth of Stiles is pressed against him, and their fingers lace tightly together. Derek doesn’t feel the cold.

*

DECEMBER 20

They get into their third fight shortly after Erica picks up the boys to watch them. Isaac hugs Stiles extra tight, and begs him, “Be home soon, Tatusiu!” Stiles kisses his cheek, and then they’re off.

Derek can’t remember exactly what sets it off, but suddenly Stiles and him are glaring at each other across a room, both dressed to the nines. Stiles had been fidgeting with his cufflinks, and Derek snapped at him, nervous about speaking to so many people, and Stiles reacted, that’s what Derek thinks.

“I’m sorry I’m not fancy enough to know how to fucking do everything! Or how to behave so I don’t _embarrass_ you,” Stiles spits, his face contorted in anger.

“I’m sorry for that too!” Derek snarls, and his own voice sounds foreign. _Love_ makes him so unpredictable. “And I’m sorry that I don’t have the time to teach you how to not fuck things up! No point to it if it’s hopeless!” His own words reaches his ears, and he freezes. _No no no…_

Stiles’s face tightens, and he storms out the front door, saying bitingly, “Let’s just get this goddamned thing over.” He waits in front of the Camaro, and when Derek unlocks the car as _angrily_ as he can, he jumps in and slams the door.

The ride to the office is tense and thick with the anger and unspoken words. Usually they have a riot trying to choose what music they’ll listen to, but Stiles doesn’t even reach for the radio knob. He just stares out the window moodily, and Derek regrets everything. He asks, gingerly, “Want to listen to anything, Stiles?”

“You pick,” Stiles says shortly, and oh _god_ Derek really fucked up. Stiles takes relish in choosing what music to blast. His words replay in his ears, and he clenches his jaw.

“Stiles—”

 _“Pick the music or stop talking.”_ The disconcerting thing is that Derek can see Stiles speaking and the words come out harsh and furious, but his facial expression doesn’t change beyond that blankness. Derek tentatively turns on the radio, stopping on one song that he _knows_ Stiles likes. It’s an odd station, and he doesn’t understand half the music, but Stiles likes it.

“—gotta spend some time, love. You gotta spend some time with me. And I know that you’ll find, love. I will possess your heart…” the song croons, and Stiles’s blankness slowly dissipates.

There’s an exhale, and on the next verse, Stiles’s nearly inaudible voice murmurs, “You reject my advances… And desperate pleas… I won’t let you let me down… So easily… so easily.” Derek hurts to hear his boy sound so upset, and know it’s his fault.

“Stiles,” Derek says quietly, but they pull into the parking space of his office, and Stiles leaps out, nearly _fleeing_ from Derek, and my god, he did this so wrong. This is the _worst_ fight they’ve had. Stiles is jerking away from Derek every time he moves, when they make it upstairs, he’s nearly whining from anxiety, Derek can tell.

“Baby please,” Derek says into Stiles’s ear, but Stiles shakes—not from excitement. From honest-to-god _fear_ of Derek. Boyd is standing there, when the door opens, with Allison Argent, and they both see them. Boyd tugs on Derek, and Allison snags Stiles.

“What’d you do,” Boyd says flatly. “He looks terrified, and you look sick. What did you do, Derek, to fuck up? Thank god you two sent the boys to my place. Never thought I’d be saying that.” He crosses his arms, staring Derek in the eyes, and Derek lets his own wander over to Stiles and Allison. Stiles is slumping down, and when Allison touches him, he just _collapses_ into her arms.

“We fought,” Derek says distantly. “I said things I shouldn’t have. I _need_ to apologize.”

“Yeah. Words won’t work. Danny’s working music duty,” Boyd says, and Derek’s eyes widen. Boyd nods towards Danny. “Pick one of Stiles’s hipster love songs,” he suggests, and Derek nods.

“Danny,” Derek says, when he makes it over. Stiles had composed himself by now, and is speaking to people. To _Matt Daehler,_ of all people. “Play—oh god…” A memory of Stiles singing to Derek after they finished putting the boys to bed pops into his head. “That one band— _Neon Trees._ Yes. That one song—Mad Love. Please. _Please_.”

Danny hooks one eyebrow upwards, and looks at Stiles, whose face looks like glass. “Okay,” he nods, and presses some sort of button. “You’re lucky me and Stiles have similar taste in music.” The music switches, and Derek ducks out the way to watch as the music hits Stiles’s ears. He watches as his head jerks up, and look around wildly.

_“Nothing you could do could ever stop my baby, nothing you could say could tear us two apart. We got all the spark to set this thing on fire. We got making love down to a fine art…”_

Derek doesn’t move from the corner he’s hiding in. Boyd is rolling his eyes and moving over towards Danny to chat, and Stiles is still searching through the crowds avidly. _“Tell me I’m a fool for everything that we do. Tell me we’re a mess, I’ll tell you you’re a liar…”_ Stiles finally looks into the corner, and their eyes lock.

Stiles’s eyes are a mixture of anger and relief. Derek flips his hand over, palm up, and extends it. Stiles looks at it, before moving towards him. When Stiles is close enough to speak, Derek says, “First thing. I love you. Second thing. I’m sorry.” He lets his shoulders slump, and he looks into the sweetness that is the caramel of Stiles’s eyes.

“I love you too. I know.” Stiles steps a little closer. “You’re a sap, you know. I’m surprised you knew what songs I like.”

“I know everything you like,” Derek says, truthfully, and hesitantly pulls Stiles so they press foreheads together. “From how you like your eggs, to how you like to be sitting on the couch. I know how you like me to be in the bed when we’re sleeping.”

“I like you to _be_ there,” Stiles admits, and tilts his head so his lips brush over Derek’s, softly and sweetly. “I know that you like rock songs, and that you love the boys like nothing else, and that you like chocolate silk pie better than apple, which is good, because we both know I think cooked fruit is disgusting which it _is_ , and I love you,” he says in a rush.

“We’re idiots,” Derek breathes, and Stiles nods emphatically.

“We are,” he agrees, and captures Derek’s lips again, the song trailing off, and being replaced with, _“STACY’S MOM HAS GOT IT GOING ON!”_

“Danny’s a bigger one,” Derek offers, and Stiles responds, “Or Boyd,” before they both nod, grinning at each other before going back to kissing, harder and deeper.

They’ll be okay.

*

DECEMBER TWENTY-FIFTH

“Tatusiu!” Jackson shouts, bounding into the room, Scott and Isaac tearing after him. “It’s _Christmas!_ Papa! It’s _Christmas_ and you need to wake up!” They leap up, onto the bed, screaming with excitement and impatience.

“Okay, okay, boys,” Stiles huffs out, and Derek’s pleased to hear his voice is still ragged from all the noises he had been making last night. “Let your papa and I get up, okay, boys? Go sit on the couch and pick out your _first_ present.” When they all run out, he turns to Derek, and kisses his nose swiftly. “Merry Christmas, sourpatch. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Derek answers, planting a kiss on Stiles’s lips instead. He bends over to pull on sweatpants (he hadn’t owned a pair until Stiles) and Stiles does the same. They stumble into the living room, the boys nearly vibrating with excitement.

“Okay, let’s get the camera!” Stiles exclaims, and moves to grab it. “Now who’s going first?” This leads to an argument, and Derek settles it by calling Isaac. Isaac tears open the paper.

“Tatusiu! Papa!” he shouts, waving the toys he got of the green Cyclops and the furry blue thing—Derek can’t remember their names. “Thank you!”

Scott is next, and shouts in surprise and joy his present: two stuffed fists, like the villain-protagonist of—Wreck-It Ralph. _That’s_ the movie. “Thank you, Papa, Tatusiu,” he says distractedly, trying to tear them open. Stiles snaps a picture of Derek doing it for Scott, and giggles to himself, like a small child.

Jackson carefully unwraps his own gift, grinning when he sees a staff like Jack Frost’s. (Yes, Derek _did_ like that movie.) “This is _awesome_ ,” he says in quiet awe.

The present-unwrapping goes by swiftly, and the boys are ecstatic. When the packaging of the many gifts are thrown away, the boys go straight to the art supplies, completely ignoring the things they just begged to be opened. Stiles snorts, and sips at his coffee. “Remind me to grab your present after I finish this,” he says, before pouring more creamer into it. “We need more creamer,” he adds, putting it back into the fridge.

Derek downs his own, going into the bedroom to pull out Stiles’s present. He got it immediately after the fight, and knew _why_. He knew that he wanted Stiles to be the one he woke to every single day, and he wanted to make it permanent. Stiles didn’t like cheesy jewelry—he had made that abundantly clear—which left Derek to go online and order next-day shipping.

The ring he chose was antique metal, bordered carefully in curls. He had gotten the words _“my perfect fool”_ engraved on the inside—yes, it had been a bitch to pay for, and it was _absolutely_ worth it—and he wraps his hand around it, for the first time feeling anxious. What if this is too fast for Stiles? Almost half a year, that’s _it_ , for the time they’ve been dating? But nine months for the time they’ve known each other, that counts, doesn’t it…

He’s a mess. Just get it over with, Derek, he thinks, as he walks down the hall. “Stiles? C’mere,” he calls, and when Stiles appears, he looks nervous too. “Stiles,” he says, and begins to kneel down. Stiles catches his arm, and keeps him standing. “Stiles?”

“You weren’t just gonna… Were you?” he asks, blushing. Derek nods slowly. “Oh god _dammit_ ,” he mutters, and brings out a ring of his own. “You beat me to it! You motherfucker!”

Derek pulls out the ring, and grabs Stiles’s hand, dropping it into his palm. “Stiles Stilinski, my perfect fool, my terrible singer, will you marry me?”

“Oh my god, yes, just take the fun out of me surprising you,” he glowers, before springing up to kiss Derek and slide the ring on his own finger. “I was going to ask you, and flip the script, but _nooo,_ you have to be first at everything!” He places the ring in Derek’s hand, and Derek looks at it.

The metal looks almost icy in the light, some trick maybe? It’s etched with little imperfections—and he loves it. He slips it on, and it fits. It may be a little tight, but it’s perfect and he loves it.

“Oh _gross_ ,” Jackson mutters, walking into the hallway. “I’m so _done_ with the both of you. Go be lovey-dovey somewhere else,” and proceeds to shut the door to the bathroom.

Stiles just looks at Derek and laughs, the ring glinting on his finger.

**Author's Note:**

> Ahaha a wedding, what? 
> 
> Kudos are great, comments are love, you know the drill. Bye, babes. Until next time!


End file.
